


Measurements

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Mr Fell needs a suit for the wedding of his friends. Turns out, there's a new tailor...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 99





	Measurements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sani86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/gifts).



> Sani's idea.

Mr Fell had a tailor. Of course he did. It would be scandalous for him  _ not  _ to have one, since life wasn't just kind to Mr Fell, it was overall doting on him and treated him as a child, which meant he hadn't had much luck in love, but then again, people tend to dislike those that life dotes on. 

Mr Fell was the youngest of four children and an absolute favourite of his parents, so while his brothers continued family business, everyone, including said brothers, agreed that Mr Fell had to do only what brought him joy. His brothers would go to the ends of the world for Mr Fell. 

Somehow Mr Fell managed to grow up humble and unassuming. He dealt in antique books, restored them and bought them and collected them and occasionally allowed someone to buy them from him. As Gabriel, his eldest brother, liked to say, "When we destroy the firm, Aziraphale will keep us afloat." Gabriel meant well. Otherwise his spouse Bea would have obliterated him, because everyone loved Mr Fell apart from the people Mr Fell would have loved to love him back. 

This intertwining of happiness and sadness is supposed to turn this story into a marble cake of the kind that Mr Fell loves dearly. 

In short, Mr Fell wanted for nothing. He was loved, he had his Soho building that his brothers had gifted him for his graduation, he volunteered at numerous soup kitchens and libraries, provided comfort to those who needed it and had the good fortune of ending up at his door, enjoyed fine dining, classical music, and well-tailored clothes. 

Mr Fell's tailor was of course the best one on Savile Row and the most unconventional. At first sight Mme Tracy's shop could be mistaken for a brothel, or a drug cartel headquarters masquerading as a brothel. Yet she was the best, most sought out tailor and it bore no argument. She'd have loved to run a brothel, though. It would have been unionised, would have taken the best of care of both patrons and workers and perhaps Mme Tracy would have politely bombed anyone involved in any sort of slut-shaming. She was a very sweet woman. She dressed as if she were headed to Woodstock to see Led Zeppelin in person and shag the nearest hippy silly, but we all have our weaknesses - not that Led Zeppelin could have ever been considered a weakness. Mme Tracy would have politely bombed you for saying a single bad word about Robert Plant, which was ironic, since the suits Mme Tracy made would have left Robert Plant pale as a ghost. Mme Tracy made  _ respectable  _ suits. 

She did own an Etsy shop selling the most finely crafted sex toys, but that was between her and Etsy. 

That fine rainy day, Mr Fell came to Mme Tracy punctual as a puncher. His dear friends had just gotten engaged, and perhaps Mr Fell had his doubts about dear Newt's ability to stay alive (the man was a menace to everything even remotely connected to electricity, and overall an adorable nuisance), but dear Ana (socialite, heiress, part-time witch, absolute badass, free-diver and what not) wanted Newt and on;y Newt, and that meant that Mr Fell needed a new suit. Something wonderful. 

"Hello, my dear!" Mr Fell greeted happily. 

"Take a seat, dearie, I'll be with you in a moment."

There was a lovely table with assorted tea things prepared for Mr Fell, so Mr Fell decided to indulge. He preferred to indulge every time he could, and he always could. It showed around his belly, and Mr Fell bit his lip nervously, thinking that Mme Tracy would certainly notice. She wouldn't comment on it, of course. But she'd notice. And judge. Most people did. Gabriel would have had most people dead for this, but Aziraphale couldn't allow for it to happen. 

"There you are, darling," Mme Tracy walked out of the back room to greet her favourite client. "You look radiant. And so sweetly old-fashioned." She teased, but Mr Fell dressed to impress a Victorian dandy on a daily basis. 

Mme Tracy sat in front of Mr Fell and helped herself to a cup of tea. Mr Fell greatly enjoyed those moments with her. It made the whole experience just as relaxing as a day in spa. Not that Mr Fell would ever attend a spa. It involved undressing and showering somewhere that wasn't his cozy bathroom filled with fluffy towels and comforting smells. 

"Can you believe it, I’ve finally found a proper assistant!" Mme Tracy said. 

"Oh, that's lovely. You've been looking for one for so long!"

"Indeed! Such a sweet thing! Talented. Hands of gold… A bit of a troublemaker, just like I love." She winked at Mr Fell, making him laugh. "Do you mind if Crowley, that is my assistant, takes your measurements today? My back is really acting up something hellish." Mme Tracy winced. Aziraphale couldn't help wincing too. 

"Of course, my dear friend. I trust your judgement. Would give a dear some practice too."

"You're an angel!" 

Having shared some gossip and exchanged opinions and partaken in their fair share of cucumber sandwiches and perfectly brewed tea, Mme Tracy and Mr Fell proceeded to the dressing room. 

"Crowley, dearie!" Mme Tracy called, as they walked into the room. 

Whatever Mr Fell expected to see, it wasn't the sight that met him when he raised his eyes to greet Crowley with a bright smile. He absolutely didn't expect to see a young man, skinny and elegant, with shoulder length red hair, sauntering into the room, a vision in skin tight black jeans, an equally skin tight black shirt and a measuring tape around his neck. He wore sunglasses. Indoors. Behind him something collapsed. 

"Well. That went down like a lead balloon," he remarked dryly. 

"Sorry… what?" Aziraphale squeaked.

"I said that went down like a lead balloon," Crowley clarified. "Not a good idea to stack up the supplies like that." 

"I swear, one of these days I will kill Shadwell!" Mme Tracy said with fire in her eyes. 

"Nah, I'll take care of it." Crowley shrugged. "Hm… Hello!" He waved at Aziraphale.

"Crowley, this is Mr Fell, my dearest patron. Mr Fell, this is Crowley. He's a dear."

"I'm not," Crowley growled. 

"I know," she acquiesced. "Anyway. Mr Fell is in need of a suit fit for the wedding of his close friends. You can take it from here." Mme Tracy sat in a huge armchair and looked at both men adoringly. Mr Fell wasn't sure he could breathe. 

"Are you alright?" Crowley asked, pulling the tape off his neck with regal grace and a lovely concerned frown. 

"No," Mr Fell replied honestly. "But I'll endure."

"Dearie, would you like some water?" Mme Tracy asked far too knowingly. 

"No. I'll endure," Aziraphale insisted. 

Crowley moved closer to Aziraphale, that same worried frown still in place. Mr Fell caught himself before he could lift a hand and massage the crease from his brow. That calligraphy of a man had no right to be worried. And he sorely needed a healthy meal - one that Aziraphale would so love to share with him. 

Mr Fell remembered he wasn't calligraphy (he was; it’s just that for all his knowledge, he didn't know much about calligraphy and neither do I, but who cares, I'm right) and that he had a belly (soft and round and beautiful), that his shoulders were round (Mr Fell forgot everything about geometry, not that he liked it, ever), that he had a double chin when he moved just so (and so what?).

Crowley started with the shoulders, or he meant to. Or at least, Mr Fell knew that Tracy started with the shoulders. 

"Is that alright?" He asked.

"Yes," Mr Fell begged. 

"You'll need to… undress. A bit, at least." Crowley smiled. "May I help?"

Mr Fell nodded. 

Crowley's hands barely touched him, and even if they did touch the fabric of Mr Fell’s clothes, there were many layers between them and bare skin.

With a flourish, Crowley placed Aziraphale's jacket on a rack.

And started to unbutton Aziraphale's waistcoat. Deftly. With those long, deft fingers. And utmost concentration. 

"A frock coat?" Crowley asked, taking the measurements of Aziraphale's shoulders. "Or maybe a paletot coat? You'd look delectable in anything, really." He turned to Mme Tracy to tell her the size of Aziraphale's shoulders. 

The waist followed. Aziraphale blushed. 

"Waisted, of course. You're a very handsome man, Mr Fell." 

"Don't tease me!" Aziraphale suddenly threatened. He could hear Tracy's chuckle. 

"Tease you? Why would I tease you? It's a pleasure to, you know... measure you. Ngk, I'm so eloquent."

The inside leg. 

Clever hands, horrible hands, skimming up from ankle to knee to thigh, avoiding any point of pleasure or meaning. Mr Fell was quite… 

The inside leg. Thigh. Inner thigh. Oh dear...

Crowley's voice, alive and warm and quiet and soothing and soft. His hair looks soft too. 

"You still haven’t told me which suit you want. I definitely recommend poletot. And slim fit trousers. Your legs need to be accentuated. A waistcoat for sure, shirt, bow tie… or maybe a cravat…"

Collar. Tape around the neck, pulled just tight enough. 

Crowley leaning in, peering at the tiny printed numbers. So close Mr Fell could feel a warm puff of breath on his neck.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses into his hair and winked at Aziraphale. "You're doing beautifully. I'd have been fidgeting like anything right now."

Rump.

Oh dear Lord. Those clever, clever hands, deft as anything, far too professional, far too quick.

"Perfect," Crowley concluded. Well, he was. "Shall we take a look at the fabric? I see you prefer lighter colours, but I'd suggest navy blue. It'll bring your eyes…"

Mr Fell looked at Crowley with pleading eyes. 

Crowley smiled back. 

It was becoming too much, Mr Fell felt too much, all at once. 

Crowley stepped back. "All done," he said calmly. "As much as I'd love to show you which fabrics I have in mind for you, you don't seem to be in the mood for it."

"You two should discuss it over lunch!" Mme Tracy exclaimed, reminding them of her presence.

"I wouldn't…" 

"Of course you would, both of you, sillies! Crowley, order us that wicked thing you did yesterday."

"Mr Fell, would you like to have lunch here?" Crowley turned to Mr Fell.

"I really shouldn't… I…" 

"As you wish," Crowley bowed. "I'll order for me and Tracy, though." He walked away. 

"Deary, you like him. Ask him out." Mme Tracy suggested.

"If you planned this, it's unbecoming of you," Mr Fell said seriously. 

"I didn't," Tracy replied gently. "Some things just… click. I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I'll take care of you myself."

"No!" Mr Fell protested hastily. "No. Let me… let me see him."

"Only if you ask him out," she winked. 

"They say they need an hour!" Crowley came back furious. "What the actual… Sorry."

"Have dinner with me. Today. Seven. Ritz."

Crowley stared at Mr Fell - and fainted. 

***

I'm not going to let you relive Crowley's embarrassment. He wouldn't like that. Let's just say that he came to, threw up and was now sitting by a table in the Ritz and feeling like an idiot. 

It wasn't a new feeling, by any means. Still, it was very unpleasant. 

Crowley looked through the menu. His low blood sugar was his biggest enemy, so he decided to start with a dessert. 

He thought romantic thoughts. Types of lace. Embroidery. Wholesome arse of Mr Fell. 

Damn.

He ordered some cognac too. 

Mr Fell wouldn't come, he knew it. 

Alright, he was half an hour early, so what? He finished his tiramisu, another one, plus a lava cake. 

"Oh darling, am I that late?" Mr Fell asked. 

Crowley stared up at him. 

"You're not. I… I thought you'd… especially after… you know." Crowley rolls his shoulders. 

"Oh, I don't know, my dear. I do hope you're feeling better."

"You're an angel," Crowley said. He genuinely believed what he said, but he had learned that being cynical helped a lot. 

"Hardly. Whatever will we order if you already had quite a bit of cake?" 

"Three portions. Didn't want my low blood sugar to ruin our date."

"How very thoughtful of you, darling, indeed."

Crowley tried to gather his substantial wits. 

"I… well… you… it's on me." He managed. 

"But I asked you…"

"And I arrived early and you make me rich. Let me repay you. A little." Crowley smiled at Mr Fell. 

The sad and exhilarating truth was that, in Crowley's eyes, Mr Fell was unforgivably hot. Maybe he had to tell him so…

"I… I think you're hot and I… can't… doesn't make sense, you know? That you're not married. Where is your beautiful husband?" Crowley wasn't actually aware of what he was saying, but bugger that, he had eaten enough chocolate to care nothing about anything. 

"Non-existent, I'm afraid." Mr Fell smiled politely. 

"I'm… as much of a disaster as you are. For sure." Crowley ordered  _ something.  _

"It was very unbecoming, to ask you out." Mr Fell was even worse than Crowley. 

"It's alright. You're the first. Also, the first one I fainted on."

Mr Fell giggled. 

The rest of the evening was mostly sharing insecurities. Both men had a lot of common insecurities. Together they would make a lovely dissertation for a psychology PhD. 

It was well past midnight when they staggered out of the Ritz. 

"You're my tailor. Can't snog my tailor!" Mr Fell swore. 

"But you asked me out!" Crowley was indignant.

"Legit. But I'm drunk."

Crowley rolled his eyes and made sure Mr Fell made it safely to his flat. 

***

Crowley had been hired because he was good, nothing else. He tended to put a meaning into every stitch. 

So, in case of Mr Fell's suit, Crowley put an epic poem into every stitch. Tracy thought it was even worse for Crowley, but doubly good for business.

Mr Fell was called in a few times to see if Crowley had gotten everything right. 

He had. 

It was difficult for Mr Fell to breathe in Crowley's proximity, but Crowley was a professional, so he hoisted up colours, measured and pinned, barely said a word. 

"Ask him out again," Tracy recommended.

"Nah, it was a disaster." Crowley was sewing like a demon.

"That bad?"

"No, that good. No one can be that sexy without… Fuck."

***

Mr Fell was a bit distracted. 

Alright, he was more than a bit distracted, and a certain tailor possessed his thoughts. It was nothing, really, except for those intense moments when Crowley was making sure Mr Fell's suit fit perfectly.

***

"Alright, my dear, that's enough," Mr Fell said one evening. Crowley couldn't quite grasp the meaning of Mr Fell's words, so he kept working.

"You're coming with me to the wedding. They say I talk about you too much."

Crowley inadvertently drove a pin into Mr Fell's ankle. He'd lick it better, but it wasn't like he had been given permission to do so. 

"I'm not…"

"Crowley!"

"Aziraphale!"

"You… you say my name like a blessing. You should come with me."

"Me? Ngk. Fine." Another pin made it to Mr Fell's ankle. 

"Ouch!"

"Sorry!"

***

The suit was perfect, and for one perfect evening Mr Fell could pretend he owned Crowley body and soul.

It was going rather well. Ana was too busy to ask questions, until she wasn't.

"So, how did you two meet?" She asked, sitting across from Mr Fell and Crowley.

"I took his measurements for a suit. Been gone ever since," Crowley replied honestly. 

"Awww, it's so romantic!" Ana crooned and went off to enjoy her wedding dance. 

"How about we put them to shame?" Crowley asked hotly into Aziraphale's ear.

"It's their wedding, dear boy."

"Ok. So? They can fall in love at first sight and I can't?" Crowley offered his hand. Aziraphale took it.

"You know, I think that… lots of people with the least romantic romances think at a certain point,  _ it can't be happening to me _ . Such happinesses, such… coincidence." Crowley smiled, putting his arm around Aziraphale's waist. "But I say, the most… the most truly romantic stories are built on that - on the trust put into a crush. Perhaps in some other life you were a priest and I seduced you. Perhaps you saved me. Perhaps I made you a suit." He smiled down at Aziraphale. "Perhaps we're just dancing."

So dancing they were. Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder.

"We never had a second date."

"It's alright, angel. We can always have one. We can have the first one all over again."

"Would you like that?"

"Why wouldn't I? It's all about taking risks, isn't it? Would you take a risk with me?" Crowley asked earnestly. 

"Darling, you're too good…"

"No, angel. You are. Shut up."

They danced until the happy couple retired. 

Then they danced some more. 

Actually, they are still dancing. 


End file.
